Missed Opportunities
by laughinghyena2000
Summary: For all the times I was not there, I am here tonight. Gibbs does a little introspection. Father/son.


**Disclaimer: NCIS and all its lovely characters don't beeeelooong to me.**

**A/N: NCIS marathon = deluge of words. Marginally (as in atomically small) connected to that scene in Bounce with Gibbs and DiNozzo… I never really thought Gibbs was offering praise for just one case. **

**Missed Opportunities**

I was not there when you took your first step, arms slightly raised off your sides, knees bent. Millions of years of evolved instincts helping you keep your center of gravity lowered. I did not see you laugh, mouth wide-open with pudgy cheeks almost hiding your green eyes. A laugh without an agenda to persuade, to seduce, to hide. A real laugh. I did not see your two new teeth peeking out or the dewy growth of hair on your almost bald head. And at the moment after the step, when you turned to look for someone, anyone to share your joy, I was not there. There was only the daytime nanny. I was not there to clap and coo and pick you up to twirl you around. To take a picture as you smiled, a line of drool trickling down your mouth. It is not everyday one learns to walk, and I was not there.

I was not there when she left, when you spent that night crying into your pillow so no one else would hear. So he would not hear. I did not, could not, tell you it wasn't your burden to carry alone, that a family should share the burden of pain. I could not tell you that you didn't have to smile so bright when well wishers dressed in black told a lame joke, thinking it would make you forget the woman lying in the coffin was your mother. When you walked back to your room, forgotten by the crowd in the den, I would have noticed. When you sat at the furthest corner, knees pulled tight against your chest and head buried in folded arms, I would have pulled you up. I would have taken you out for ice-cream, for pizza. But I was not there.

I was not there when you walked across the stage to accept your degree, your collar unbuttoned and tie badly knotted under the crinkled black robe. I would have made sure you woke up to your alarm and made it to your own graduation on time. When your friends dined and celebrated with their family the night before and you spent it alone on the quiet basketball courts, I would have challenged you to a game of Horse. I was not there to mail in your baby picture, the one where you drooled, so that when you opened the college daily's graduation edition and scanned the hundreds of smiling childhood faces you would find yours above the words, "Good Job, Kid." When the president of the school shook your hand and passed you the $200,000 piece of paper, you could have blushed at the loud whistle and subsequent clapping from someone, somewhere in the audience. But I was not there.

Those were the times I was not there, but I am here tonight. Tonight, I can and I will ignore your false grins and all your claims that "I'm fine, Boss". I will force you to take those pills the doctor prescribed because your skull is not cement and your body does feel pain. I promise tomorrow there will be no mention of how you counted the fingers on one hand and managed to get up to six. How you drank my dark brew and grunted, "I am Gibbs, my heart bleeds coffee." I was there for all the times before so I know how painkillers affect you. When you stumble as you climb the stairs to the bedroom, my arms will brace you. When you apologize, and whine, and complain, and mumble all at once, I will shake my head and smile because I am used to it all. Do not worry about the nightmares with flames that pull you in. Do not worry about suffocating in the quicksand of a bad dream. I will wake you before they get you, because I am here tonight.

When you sleep, I will head to the basement, too many sounds floating in my head, buzzing in my ears for me to close my own eyes. Maybe I will sand a little harder, a little faster when I remember the earlier explosion. When I remember turning around for an instance to check on the others, only to realize you had run back into the burning house. I might call you a bonehead, a stubborn, idiot, fool donkey under my breath. I might hit the flat surface of the wood because I cannot hit the back of your concussed skull. Maybe I will smile into my cup of bourbon as I wonder how you managed to realize, among the smoke and flames, among the screams and tears, among the loud voices of concerned and nosy neighbors, that the youngest of the five children was still inside the burning house. As I run my palms over the smoothed wood and frown, my own routine whenever you decide to get hurt, I will remember that movie reference you made not so long ago. I did not pay much attention, but I seem to remember the words, "I'm too old for this shit." I am.

Next month when the whole department gathers in the conference room, you bet your ass I will be there. I will be there with Abby, Ducky and Palmer, McGee and Ziva, for as much as families share the burden of pain, they share the celebration of joy. When the whole department gathers in the conference room and you are downstairs sparring with a punching bag, I will button my collar and straighten my tie. Actually, Abby will straighten my tie and dust the lint off my shoulders. When the Director, sans toothpick, shakes his head just slightly before announcing your name, I might smile a little, no, a lot, and fight the urge to clap and whistle and shout. I have a reputation as a functional mute to protect after all. When the Director, shakes my hand and whispers in my ear, 'Your boy did good,' I will simply nod because for all the other unrecognized moments where you 'did good,' I was there.

And when you finally decide that your knuckles are bruised enough and the demons of the choking smoke and blinding flames have been sufficiently put in their place, there will be a small box waiting on your desk. When you start to contemplate how far inside the drawer the small box should go, I will present you with a larger box. Sausage, pepperoni, extra, extra cheese, because some things deserve to be held up by a magnet on a fridge next to papers marked A+. I will wait until you are ready to look me in the eye before I tell you that I have been there too and I know that for you, it is not about pride. I will wait until you really look me in the eye and I will say, "Proud'a ya." I truly am, for all the times I was not there and for all the times I was.

The End

Have a good day!


End file.
